


Ring-Shaped

by IneffableDoll



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, I think all I write nowadays, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), I’m projecting, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, is Crowley being an idiot in various ways, which is another way of saying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26235217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley appears at the bookshop late at night with a bagel and a question.(Based on a comic by kiingbiing.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 108





	Ring-Shaped

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this adorable comic by kiingbiing.](https://www.instagram.com/p/CEh0Vo4FGRA/) I saw it posted a couple of days ago and thought MUST WRITE, so I asked if I could and they said yes! So, I did! Fic! Here ya go! This was so fun. I added my own ending, hope you like.

It was a perfectly normal, average night, and Aziraphale, as usual, had failed utterly to notice it.

Since he didn’t tend to sleep, Aziraphale often lost track of the time of day, the date – even the month on a few memorable occasions when binges of long series drew him in and there was no demon or heavenly mandate around to remind him the world existed (though the latter was no longer, strictly speaking, relevant to him anymore).

As it was, Aziraphale had just finished the conclusion to a truly stunning trilogy and was re-shelving it with a wistful sigh. Finishing a good book always left him with a bone-deep satisfaction, but the end of a _series_ only amplified the feeling of contentment paired oddly with restlessness, that humming of feeling like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now that his surroundings had come back into focus.

It was as he was returning these books to their rightful place (a place that had nothing whatsoever to do with an organizational system any sane person might recognize, and more to do with the _feeling_ of where a book _ought_ to go) that he heard two loud knocks disrupt the peaceful silence from the front of the shop.

Aziraphale glanced at the grandfather clock, which thankfully never needed to be rewound, as Aziraphale didn’t realize such a thing was meant to occur regularly (which is for the best, else it would never be accurate, as he would likely forget).

As he observed that it was just past two in the morning, the knocks repeated, louder and more frantic. Aziraphale gave a beleaguered sigh and carefully set his last book in place before shuffling to the door.

Most anyone else might take a moment to peek through the windows and see who it was, but Aziraphale didn’t bother as there was nothing, not even in the nighttime of Soho, that could threaten him (and, frankly, he just couldn’t be bothered. He would find out much faster by simply opening the door).

He flung it open without a second thought, already speaking as it swung inward. “I’m afraid the bookshop is definitely closed, as it is two AM-”

He was cut off when he realized he was speaking to air, followed by the realization that there was something at his feet.

He glanced down.

Of all the things...a bagel.

This bagel was being half-crushed by a hand, which, Aziraphale observed, stunned, as belonging to Crowley, who was kneeling, sans-sunglasses, in front of his bookshop.

On one knee.

Holding up a plain bagel.

Well, it _had_ been a perfectly normal, average night, anyway.

Aziraphale blinked, and when the blushing mess of a demon kneeling at his feet didn’t disappear, like some strange book-binge-induced hallucination, he tentatively asked, “Er, Crowley? What are you doing?”

Crowley, edges cast in the low, soft light emanating from the inside of the bookshop and the angled cut of the nearby lamppost, lifted an eyebrow at him as though finding this question particularly obtuse. He waved his free hand – the one not holding the bagel – and said in an incredulous tone, “Trying to propose?”

The first thing that crossed Aziraphale’s mind was that he hadn’t actually asked him anything, but it seemed a moot point at the moment, because _what now?_ “Are you...aware of what you’re holding?” he managed, voice as level as he could, even as an obnoxious blush overtook his face. He firmly told his blood cells to stop that, and they ignored him.

Crowley gave him another dubious look. “A ring?” he said, gesturing forward with his not-a-ring.

Aziraphale genuinely didn’t know whether to laugh (at the absurdity of it all) or cry (because really? This is how this was going to happen, after six thousand years of build-up and secrecy?). He settled on something like a bemused grimace. 

He took a deep breath. “No, dear,” he said carefully, “that...that is a bagel.”

Unexpectedly, Crowley just gave him an annoyed look, like this observation was somehow entirely ridiculous. “What’s the difference?” he moaned. “It’s _round.”_

Aziraphale sighed, but the small smile tugging on his lips betrayed more than a little fondness. He squatted and wrapped his fingers gently around Crowley’s wrist, which still held the bagel out imploringly. “Are you drunk, Crowley?” he asked.

“Does it matter? Are you going to say yes?” Crowley asked urgently, face still flushed – though from drink or the subject matter was unclear. Both, likely.

Finally, Aziraphale smiled and let a small chuckle escape. “How about we head into the shop and try again when sober?” He suggested as he rose, gently grasping Crowley’s upper arms and dragging him to stand.

Crowley came willingly, leaning heavily on Aziraphale. “But do you accept?” he reiterated desperately, looking miserable and anxious. 

Aziraphale flung Crowley’s arm around his shoulders and led him to the back sofa, which had already arranged itself comfortably with pillows and a fluffy blanket. “Ask me again tomorrow,” Aziraphale said simply, unable to hide his warm smile. “Do you want to sober up?”

Crowley shook his head, looking petulant, but all the energy and adrenaline seemed to have leaked out of the demon. With a grunt, he fell onto the sofa and melted into the cushions like a particularly lean cat. He looked up at Aziraphale through half-lidded eyes.

With obvious effort, he held up his dumb bagel one last time.

Aziraphale huffed and peeled it from his fingers, which were crushing the soft bread. “Go to sleep, my dear,” he murmured.

Crowley’s hand fell to dangle off the sofa, and Aziraphale drew the blanket over him. He was asleep in seconds, snoring loudly.

~

A string of curse words was Aziraphale’s alert that morning had come.

From a few feet to his left, the ball of tangled blankets and akimbo limbs shifted and turned as Crowley awoke, grumbling and swearing about a headache. A deep sigh a moment later suggested he’d miracled away the hangover, and he sat up, rubbing his face.

When he saw Aziraphale sitting by his desk near him, he froze, hair an absolute rat’s nest, eyes wide and gold. He glanced about with something like panic. “This...this is not my room,” he observed in a neutral, unnatural tone.

“No,” Aziraphale agreed, closing his book, and turning to face him. “It’s not.”

Aziraphale watched with abstract fascination as every possible emotion flitted across the demon’s face. The lack of lucidity, followed by confusion, chased quickly by anxiety as he took in the situation. Aziraphale could tell he was filtering through the memories of the night before (alcohol may inhibit the memories of humans, but neither Aziraphale nor Crowley saw why they would suffer the same, being supernatural beings, and so the alcohol chose not to. As for the hangover, they both simply forgot hangovers existed until they had them).

It must have been an eventful night, for it took a solid minute – which ranged from shock to amusement to a flicker of sadness dashed by a smirk as he remembered some sequence of events leading up to the bagel incident – before his entire face turned as red as his hair, no doubt finally realizing how and why he was here.

On the angel’s sofa.

After proposing to said angel.

With a _bagel._

“W-What happened last night?” He said in a high, shaky voice. “I, er, don’t remember it. Guess I’d better run-“

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as Crowley scrambled to untangle his legs from the tartan blanket, which had somehow wound around his skinny limbs multiple times. “Crowley.”

“Really, very busy, so many demonic things to go do-“

“Crowley.”

“Yes, hate to kip and run, but I really-“

_“My dear.”_

Crowley finally stopped his attempt to free himself from the blanket, one foot loose but missing a shoe (he might have not been wearing shoes when he came to the bookshop, actually, so it wasn’t clear whether the blanket had eaten it or not). Crowley stared determinedly at his fists, clutching the edges of the blanket and slightly trembling.

“You and I both know you remember what you did,” Aziraphale said in as nonaccusatory a tone as he could manage.

Crowley scowled. “Well, for the sake of my dignity and withering self-respect, let's say we don’t and move on and pretend this never, ever happened, yes?”

Aziraphale pouted. “I don’t want to.”

With a dramatic, overblown groan, Crowley flopped back against the couch in a structured, unconvincingly nonchalant pose.

_“Really_ , now.” Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes again and folded his hands over his stomach. “I simply thought that we could use last night as a – a lesson, perhaps. For next time.”

Crowley lifted his head to arc an eyebrow at him. “Next time?”

“For how not to go about it, the next time you propose.” Aziraphale punctuated this with a nod and a small smile.

Crowley’s mouth fell open, eyebrows crashing low as he squinted, like some hidden meaning behind these words was written across Aziraphale’s forehead. “What?”

“I really don’t know how to make myself clearer than that, my dear.”

“Wait. Waitwait _wait_. So _you”_ – he pointed at Aziraphale, as though to clarify – “want _me”_ – now he pointed to himself, eyes blown wide – “to propose? Again?”

Aziraphale smiled mildly. It might have been a smirk, just a little bit, or maybe a lot. “Yes.”

“Really?” He visibly swallowed. “Wait, but what are you gonna say?”

Aziraphale grinned a little wider. “Now that would hardly be sporting if I told you now, would it?”

Crowley nodded like this made perfect sense, shoving loose hair out of his face. “Right. Okay. Cool. Right.” He stood in a rush, nearly tripping when he realized the blanket still had a hold on one foot. He shoved it off and made for the door in one shoe, walking backward and _beaming._ “I’ll – I’ll be back later, okay, angel? I need to, erm…” He hesitated, and when he saw Aziraphale’s fond, indulgent smile, blushed madly. “Yeah. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Before Aziraphale could reply, he was gone. But the warmth in his chest was not.

All alone in the bookshop, Aziraphale turned to his desk and took a bite out of his bagel, which was covered in a light layer of cream cheese, and found himself daydreaming, just a bit, about what delightful occurrences lay in his very near future.

Hopefully Crowley would bring something more properly ring-shaped this time.


End file.
